


The Hoodie of Blasphemy

by Meatball42



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Boston Red Sox, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, New York Yankees, Oblivious Tony Stark, Rivalry, Social Media, Sweaters, just a hint for flavor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 00:30:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17254241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/pseuds/Meatball42
Summary: The Avengers team gets closer, and so do Steve and Tony. If only Tony could figure out why Steve's sweaters smell so good...





	The Hoodie of Blasphemy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cachette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cachette/gifts).



> Don’t mix Tylenol and alcohol, kids.
> 
> Many dozens of thanks to the gifted and talented lovepeaceohana for probably the most thorough beta job I've ever seen, and showed me just how much more I could improve my craft. LPO, I am extremely in your debt! Any remaining errors or awkward word choices are completely mine.

It started because of the Hoodie of Blasphemy.

After the Battle of New York, the newly-branded Avengers moved into Stark Tower mainly for operational security. Circling each other like cats posturing over territory, Tony and Natasha each set out to support their teammates in their own fashions.

Tony learned everything there was to know about the physics of archery in one night, mostly so he could taunt Clint’s form; Natasha took him out to peaceful neighborhoods in Brooklyn to sit in silence. Tony kept Bruce company overnight, distracting him with his own latest journal releases; Natasha quietly arrived every morning when Bruce woke with a perfectly-brewed cup of his favorite tea. She studied early 20th-century slang to avoid being one more person to whom Steve had to awkwardly explain himself; Tony took him to a Yankees game.

That was the mistake.

Interactions with Steve so far had been strained. The two of them hadn’t really gotten off on the right foot, and then there was a lot of bloodshed, but there was something to be said for fighting at someone’s side, and even more to be said for being thrown together in a living space after the fact. Since Tony tended to get shaky anytime he wasn’t talking, lately, most of his downtime was spent on the communal floor he and Pepper slapped together for the team while their individual floors were being customized. He and Steve were getting along cordially, but that wasn’t good enough. Tony was determined to push past the awkwardness and reestablish something like the harmony he’d felt between them during the battle.

Thus, the second-manliest of bonding events: organized sports. Tony thought it was a great choice: communal, classic, and little changed from Steve’s time, at least compared all the other things that tripped him up. From his polite applause and informed critique on the different players’ techniques, Tony figured that Steve was enjoying himself; at least until the fourth inning.

A Yankee up at bat swung and missed for his third strike. Sympathetically, Steve commented, “Well, he tried his best, and that’s all anyone can do."

Any other day, a cheesy line like that would have had Tony gritting his teeth. Today, for the first time, Tony's ear caught the understated sarcasm in Steve's commentary.

But Steve’s expression was perfectly level, his motions smooth as he ate popcorn and sipped on his soda.

Tony had an epiphany that quickly turned into a minor apoplexy. His face turned red from more than just the sun. Luckily, their conversation had been sparse, so he hoped Steve didn’t notice how much he was struggling to control himself.

“Steve,” he began after a few minutes. “Are you… not a Yankees fan?”

Steve looked over at him, casually appraising. He took Tony’s measure in silence, and it was only because the world was already threatening to shatter around him that Tony remained still and quiet.

[“I’m not altogether too fond of them,” Steve said at last.](https://thewife101.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/wpid-https3a2f2f33-media_-tumblr-com2ff9475d256b224aa9dc018e702c49e7482ftumblr_nie1c8zdc11qj2x48o3_250.gif?w=474)

_‘I’m not altogether too fond of them.’_ It echoed in Tony’s head.

“Okay,” he said out loud. He dug his fingers into his things to keep his breathing even and went back to watching the game.

When he didn’t speak for the rest of the inning, Steve leaned forward in his seat and asked, with a look of concern, “Is everything okay?”

Tony had, by now, managed to contain his rage, so he was perfectly calm when he said, “Not altogether sure we can be friends, Rogers.”

A beat of silence, and then Steve laughed. It wasn’t uproarious, or anything, but it was a _real_ laugh, the first Tony had gotten out of him. In that moment, Tony realized that there really was a chance that, someday, they could be real friends off the battlefield. He hadn’t honestly believed it before; but after that day, he thought they were on the right track.

So when Steve showed up to breakfast a few days later wearing The Hoodie, Tony froze in the middle of chopping fruit for a smoothie, completely flabbergasted.

“What- what-”

“I ordered it online,” Steve said too casually as he turned to open the refrigerator. “Natasha helped me.” He pulled out a quart of yogurt and smiled his best photo op smile.

The navy blue hoodie sported a Boston Red Sox logo on the front, and on the back, its bright white lettering proclaimed:

_“The Curse is Broken:_

_1918-2004_

_86 Years”_

After a solid fifteen seconds of rereading the text without comprehension, Tony turned to Natasha, who sat at the breakfast bar smirking devilishly. “We thought it was ironic,” she said, tilting her head and playing with her spoon, far too entertained by the spectacle she’d helped create.

Normally, Tony would try to play it off when Natasha got one over on him, but this was too serious to joke about. “How could you -?” He waved wordlessly at the offending garment.

“It’s funny,” Steve said simply as he poured himself some coffee. “The only thing that survived longer than me was a losing streak.”

He took a sip of his coffee, his expression neutral like that wasn’t the saddest thing anyone had ever heard.

Tony looked back at Natasha, who looked more pleased than a cat with a canary pinned beneath its paw. He looked back at Steve, who leaned back against the counter and started eating yogurt straight out of the tub with a huge spoon.

Tony wanted to coo at him. And he also wanted to rip the hoodie off him and banish him from the Tower.

“I can’t handle this.” Tony abandoned his breakfast and left the kitchen for his workshop.

Just as the elevator doors closed, he swore he could hear sniggering.

Bruce found him a few minutes later with a cold compress on the back of his neck, and wisely refrained from questioning.

Tony took to calling it the Hoodie of Blasphemy, semi-seriously ordering the hoodie out of his Tower whenever Steve wore it. Furthermore, he commissioned and gifted Steve a series of superior sweaters: [ an Iron Man fleece](https://www.amazon.com/Marvel-Mens-Hooded-Costume-Fleece/dp/B009E31ZPS), a poncho with a Mjolnir design out of New Mexico, [ a thick NY Rangers jersey](https://shop.nhl.com/new-york-rangers/mens-new-york-rangers-fanatics-branded-royal/red-breakaway-lace-up-hoodie/t-14716315+p-8052498770321+z-9-4012209116) that bore a slight resemblance to Steve's uniform. Steve received them in the spirit of camaraderie with which they were meant, except for the [Bucky Bear hoodie](https://www.teepublic.com/hoodie/2887155-howling-commandos-bear) misfire that everyone agreed to pretend never happened. Steve wore them each around for a few days, and then occasionally afterwards, but he always returned to the Hoodie of Blasphemy eventually. They kinda, dare Tony think it, bonded over it. Even when he and Steve were in a disagreement about some Avengers business, which happened fairly often as the superhero business started to pick up, they always had at least one thing to laugh about.

Even after everyone’s individual floors were completed, the Avengers tended to congregate on their communal floor. They quickly absorbed Thor when he returned, introducing the Asgardian to shared meals in the communal kitchen and movies in the cozy TV room, or party games and aimless conversations in the wide open lounge with its views of the city. Tony deliberately did not think about why he felt happier and calmer now that he’d picked up a half dozen roommates. Some superstitious tingle in the back of his mind warned that questioning it might make it go away.

Instead, he learned how to banter - not snipe - with people other than Rhodey. He learned to appreciate it when someone nagged him into drinking something besides coffee, because they learned to accept the way he constantly took away their equipment to compulsively make it better. He learned how to accept Steve's trolling and Natasha's smirks, Bruce's incredibly sneaky pranks and Thor's stories that were either absolute crap or complete truth. It was so good that Tony just decided to pretend like it was perfectly normal to stumble out of his workshop at 6 in the evening after a caffeine-fueled inventing binge, and - rather than passing out over a delivery pizza and waking up dehydrated and sore - to be fed homemade lasagna, bundled up on the TV room sofa, and petted to sleep.

Yeah, he had no plans to question this anytime soon.

So when he woke up in the mid-morning light, feeling warmer and more comfortable than he had in recent memory, Tony assumed it was just the giddy, still-novel feeling of being cared for. But as soon as he turned over to stretch, Tony realized he had somehow been dressed in the Hoodie of Blasphemy. It was incredibly soft on the inside and toasty warm. Tony took a deep, relaxed breath and caught a wonderful scent. He didn’t know what it was, but it smelled like curling up with the Avengers, like good banter and good food. He wondered what Steve was washing it in. Or maybe it was a cologne?

A text alert distracted him from his loopy morning thoughts. Someone had thoughtfully placed his phone nearby, so it took no time at all to open the group chat and see several pictures of himself drooling onto, in order: Steve’s lap, a Hello Kitty pillow, and the Hoodie of Blasphemy. His teammates’ teasing followed shortly.

 _‘You realize this is mine now,’_ Tony texted. _‘Finders keepers.’_ He ran his fingers through his hair quickly before shooting a selfie where he was clutching the Hoodie covetously.

 _‘Another fan converted!’_ Steve snarked.

 _‘Who’da thought cap had it in him?’_ Clint sent.

 _‘He doesn’t yet ;)’_ Natasha teased.

Tony closed the chat, and if his cheeks were a bit pink, it was only because The Hoodie was overheating him.

He wore the thing in his lab for the rest of the day, fending off Steve’s playful attempts to wrestle it off him when he surfaced for a mid-afternoon lunch. The others laid bets on when and how Steve would manage to win the Hoodie back. They weren't afraid of teasing Tony to his face about his sweater habits, but at least they kept their racier comments to a minimum around Steve, purely out of altriusm; Steve's habit of crossing his arms and making disappointed puppy eyes was legendary.

Tony ignored any and all such remarks. He’d planned to give The Hoodie back after dinner; no need to stretch the joke past reason, and he didn’t actually _want_ Red Sox gear. But the day wore on, and… The Hoodie was _really_ comfortable. And it smelled _really_ good.

After the dinner dishes were put away, Tony was reluctant to take the Hoodie off, but he’d done worse things for the sake of his image, and the taunting he’d get if he admitted to honestly liking the Hoodie of Blasphemy would be atrocious.

“Keep a better hold on your stuff,” Tony chastised Steve as he handed the Hoodie over. “And let this be a lesson: don’t prey on your vulnerable teammates just for likes.”

Steve grinned as he took the Hoodie back. “No promises.” From nowhere, he was suddenly fiddling with a Sharpie. “You feeling tired tonight?” he asked, smiling one of his butter-wouldn’t-melt smiles.

“There’s a better target,” Bruce interjected.

Tony jumped at the interruption. He hadn’t noticed how close he and Steve had been standing, or how much he’d blocked the rest of the room out. He always enjoyed it when Steve left shed his serious demeanor and joined in with the joking of the rest of the team- and when he sharpened his wit against Tony, specifically. It was energizing, entertaining… and Tony could still smell that wonderful scent from the Hoodie.

Bruce was nodding his head toward Thor, who was dozing off in an armchair after his huge supper. Steve stepped away from Tony to ask Bruce what he thought Steve should draw on Thor. Tony was left to frown in the middle of the kitchen, dealing with these new developments.

Since when did he enjoy Steve’s company _that_ much? Why was he jealous when someone else got Steve’s attention? And _what_ was that amazing scent?

Muffled snickers drew him from contemplation. Natasha leaned elegantly against the doorway toward the lounge, where everyone else had meandered. She was smiling at him, her glossy red lips twisted at the corners in amusement.

“On your way there, Stark?”

She wasn’t talking about the after-dinner movie.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. He opened a random cabinet and grabber the first thing he saw- a family-size tin of cashews- and shook it to show her. “All set.”

Natasha shook her head and retreated, still with that infuriating smile.

 

* * *

 

Whatever the nice scent was that Steve used on the Hoodie of Blasphemy, he washed _all_ his sweaters in it. And he had picked up a habit of leaving them around the common floor, where just anyone could stumble across them. And put them on. And wear them all day.

Tony figured it was because Steve was getting more comfortable living with all of them that he started to leave his clothes lying around. Of course, he never left any _other_ clothes lying around, only the softest sweaters that Tony liked to feel against his ski. But that had to be a coincidence. Tony would know. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about it.

The group chat became populated with teasing images of Tony in Steve’s various sweaters. The best had to be a picture taken of him rubbing the his face on the sleeve of the [Christmas sweater Natasha had bought for Steve](https://www.spencersonline.com/product/dat-ass-doe-ugly-christmas-sweater/154693.uts). He actually posted that one on his official Facebook page, where it accumulated a few hundred thousand likes.

It didn’t occur to Tony that the sweaters were proliferating even though he’d stopped getting them for Steve himself. They just appeared out of the blue, on Steve’s body, and when Steve took them off Tony would snatch them up as fast as humanly possible.

They all smelled amazing.

The slowly building tension that Tony was refusing to acknowledge came to a head one night, in a roundabout way. Tony fought with Steve about mission strategy during the debriefing, and they'd ended the meeting with the conflict unresolved. This happened fairly often, but this time, it gave Tony a headache, and he almost skipped dinner. When he did make an appearance, he spoke little and ate even less The looks his teammates exchanged only made him more irritated.

“If you’ve got something to say, spit it out. Coy isn’t a good look on you,” he said snidely to Clint, who’d been wiggling his eyebrows at Natasha in some sort of coded conversation.

“That’s enough,” Steve said as Clint scowled and opened his mouth to reply. “Tony, don’t bring your bad attitude to the dinner table.”

Tony’s ire, already at a low simmer, began steaming. “You’re my team leader, not my father. You don’t get to police me outside work hours.”

“Maybe if your father had done his job right, I wouldn’t have to.”

Tony smashed his water glass against the table. Taken over by rage, he ignored Natasha’s sharp shake of her head at Steve, and Clint’s suddenly wide eyes. But even seeing red, he couldn't disregard Bruce’s flinch at the broken glass, or the way static prickled in the air as Thor prepared for things to come to blows.

“This is some bullshit,” he ground out before storming out of the dining room.

He noticed the regret that passed over Steve’s face, but in that moment, there was nothing he could do about it.

Sixty minutes, two fingers of whiskey, and three Tylenols later, he sat in his lab, regretting the whole afternoon. He and Steve had both acted like children, and over what? Nothing worth upsetting their teammates- their _friends-_ about. When Natasha knocked on the glass door and waved him to come downstairs without saying a thing, he sighed deeply and acquiesced.

When he arrived in the TV room, he discovered a sheepish Steve in an extra-wide sweater. “This wasn’t my idea,” Steve said, shrugging. “But… I think we might have earned it.”

Tony inspected the sweater. It was a pale green, with text proclaiming ‘THIS IS OUR GET-ALONG SWEATER’ in bold, black type.

“What, exactly, is the idea?”

“The sweater will help you find your former closeness,” Thor explained from the couch, already grinning.

“We all know you like to snuggle,” Clint added.

“What do you say?” asked Steve, raising up the hem of the sweater. Tony realized that his arm was only in one sleeve, and the implication dawned on him.

It took a few seconds to do the mental math, but… there was only one answer he could give.

“I’d be delighted.” He grinned at Steve, the only way he could think of to apologize without the unnecessary humiliation of _talking about it._ Steve’s relieved return smile suggested he, too, was willing to forgive and forget.

Tony ducked under the sweater and wriggled his way up into it. It was a disaster. His shirt pulled on it, he ended up rubbing his chest against Steve’s at one point, and he nearly choked the both of them as they struggled to arrange themselves in something resembling comfort. The sweater clearly was straining to contain two full-grown men, one of whom was a super-soldier, but they managed to find the sweet spot, with Tony slotted partially in front of Steve. Steve’s hand inside the sweater found a place on Tony’s hip, keeping them together.

Tony’s mouth went dry. That scent was  _ everywhere _ .

A shutter sound distracted him from the feel of the firm, hot muscles pressed all up against his body. Natasha had, of course, taken a picture for posterity, and she waved them toward the couch. “Now that we’re all here, shall we?”

The bound pair maneuvered toward the couch like some twisted three-legged race. They were decently coordinated, but when Steve’s guiding hand slipped under Tony’s shirt as they moved, Tony nearly tripped and brought them both down.

The managed to settle on the couch, Tony half on Steve’s lap. After they finished squirming to resettle all their limbs, Steve snagged a bowl of popcorn and put it in Tony’s lap. He used his one hand to lift some popcorn to Tony’s mouth, conveniently placed, and Tony laughed as he opened wide for Steve to toss it in.

“You guys are adorable,” Clint cooed. Natasha took another picture.

Tony caught Bruce letting his head fall into his hands, a soft smile on his face.

Tony had already seen the movie, so he entertained himself by whispering to Steve while the latter tried to pay attention. Steve shushed him, but always with a smile, and eventually he was spending more time laughing at Tony’s commentary more than following the supposedly serious climax of the film.  When the final credits rolled, he jabbed Tony playfully in the side.

“You distracted me,” he complained, eyes bright and smiling. “I didn’t understand half of that film.”

“Hollywood these days, so taken with their flashy CGI, no time left over for real plots,” Tony commented pretentiously. “The movies were better back in your day weren’t they?”

“You accusing someone else of being too flashy?” Steve teased. His hand inside the sweater, which hadn’t left Tony’s side, curled him a bit closer.

“I’m certainly not accusing them of being too attached to reality, did you see those car chases?”

“Not really,” Steve said quietly.

Tony swallowed, realizing that he’d turned so he was just a few inches from Steve’s face.

A quiet cough caught his attention over Steve’s shoulder. Natasha smirked at him from the doorway, the last of the others to leave the TV room. She gave him a thumbs-up and vanished.

When he looked back at Steve, his breath caught. Steve’s eyes hadn’t left his face, and his earlier mirth had disappeared, replaced by something that looked almost tender. His thumb stroked Tony’s side. Tony took a deep breath.

The scent that permeated all of Steve’s sweaters overwhelmed him. What an idiot he was, not figuring out that he'd been chasing the scent of home until he was literally sitting in its lap.

“You smell good,” he said stupidly.

Luckily, Steve seemed just as stupefied by Tony as Tony was by Steve. “You do too."

When they kissed, it felt like the sweater was pulling them together, and not just because it was  _really_ too tight.

 

* * *

 

A few months later, Tony made a post on his official Facebook page. It was a selfie of himself and Steve at Yankee Stadium, and the caption read, “Some things matter more than rivalry.” Tony wore the Hoodie of Blasphemy, and Steve wore a gray hoodie with an upward arrow that read “This is what a Yankees fan looks like!” Tony pressed a kiss to Steve’s cheek as Steve smiled at him, his expression one of adoration.

It got over a million likes, but Tony only cared about one.

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually my second fic where Steve attends a game at Yankee Stadium wearing Red Sox gear, somehow? It is also not recommended for the sake of your health if you are not a super-soldier.


End file.
